


All Askew

by umbrafix



Series: Things that ought to have been in the series but were tragically left out [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from Season 2 Episode 1, Trove, focusing on Morse, DeBryn and Thursday</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse had missed DeBryn’s gentle teasing – always quick but never unkind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse is all emotionally compromised in this one – and Thursday keeps rubbing him the wrong way. Apparently I’ve cast DeBryn as impromptu therapist.

It felt strange, being back in Oxford. For all that Morse had being going out of his skull at County, things weren’t slipping back into place the way that he’d hoped now that he was at Cowley again. It was as though everyone was tiptoeing around him, and being overly congenial. Bright. Jakes. Even Thursday.

 

There had been many times in his life when Morse had felt like he didn’t belong, but this was all the more jarring because he’d thought he’d started to make some sort of a place for himself here. At every new, false, interaction he doubted himself a little more. When they’d had a drink together a week earlier, Thursday had kept saying that he didn’t have to come back yet if he wasn’t ready - Morse couldn’t help but wonder if the man had been trying to tell him something.

 

In fact, DeBryn was the only one so far who hadn’t been off with him.

 

Morse lingered after the autopsy on the suspected suicide, waiting while the doctor cleaned up and stripped off his gloves. “You don’t usually spend your time here voluntarily,” DeBryn commented, and gestured him through to his office. Morse took a seat without saying anything, and the pathologist poured him a drink.

 

DeBryn didn’t ask him how his leg was. Or say anything about his father’s death. Or ask if he’d already come up with a crackpot theory on no evidence at all. It was… nice. Peaceful. Morse sighed, and relaxed into the chair a little.

 

“Everything’s changed,” Morse finally said.

 

“Things do, with time.”

 

“Not like anyone noticed I was gone.” Morse wasn’t sure if he cared that his voice sounded bitter. He would have, normally. He’d have tried harder not to let it seep through.

 

“I’m not sure that’s true. Certainly I missed the new and exciting colours your face turns whenever you’re in my autopsy room.”

 

Morse gave him a half smile. He’d missed DeBryn’s gentle teasing – always quick but never unkind. “How have you been?”

 

“Can’t complain. I’ve made a great deal of new acquaintances, but alas, none of them were great conversationalists.”

 

“I imagine not.” Morse waited a moment, but DeBryn didn’t ask after him in return. Which, oddly, made it easier to talk. “County was miserable. I wasn’t popular before I transferred to Oxford, and going back was a thousand times worse. Especially on _light duties_.” He sneered the last two words. DeBryn hummed neutrally, but didn’t say anything. “Make us a cup of tea, Morse, fetch me a file, Morse, _hand me that pen which is only two feet away_ , Morse. Because apparently being shot in the leg meant ‘let’s make him walk back and forth as much as possible, to see if we can make him cry uncle.’”

 

“And did you?” DeBryn asked quietly.

 

“I could do the job,” said Morse stiffly. “I’m good enough for that, at least.”

 

“And you’re a lousy patient.” Which surprised another half-smile out of Morse, a minor miracle given how black his thoughts were. He shrugged sheepishly in response. “I imagine you tried your best to undo all of the doctor’s hard work. And mine.”

 

“It’s alright now. Aches a bit sometimes, but he said it would.”

 

DeBryn nodded. “Try not to get shot again.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Morse said wryly.

 

“People rarely do.”

 

“I… Everyone’s… “ Morse rubbed at his brow and looked around the office. It occurred to him that DeBryn wasn’t expecting anything of him other than his company. DeBryn wouldn’t care if Morse stormed out of the door right now, or if he wanted to stay for another ten minutes talking about nothing but opera.

 

It was a liberating realisation.

 

“People don’t seem to know how to act around me,” he admitted.

 

“That’s fairly common, when someone has suffered a loss of some kind.” Debryn’s words were factual, and undemanding. “People want to express sympathy, to empathise, but struggle with the best way of doing so.”

 

“It makes me angry.” This time DeBryn didn’t say anything, and Morse wondered if he ought not to have been so honest after all. “Thanks for the drink.” Morse tilted the glass towards the pathologist in salute, and headed back to the office.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Morse,” DeBryn said as he headed towards the door. Morse turned. “When I said not to get shot before, I didn’t mean you should go out and find some other method to get injured by.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After he's beaten up in London, Morse turns up at work the next day. At some point, I think he would have gone to see DeBryn. 
> 
> By the way, does anyone know if DeBryn is actually attached to the police station in some way - ie. does he have an office there, or would they be going to see him at the hospital?

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

 

Morse hovered uncertainly in the doorway of Dr DeBryn’s office. “Do you have a minute?”

 

“More than a minute, even, which is just ask well, since I think you’ll need it.”

 

“I thought I’d come and see you pre-emptively, before Inspector Thursday told me to.” Upon DeBryn’s inquiring look, he added “He’s not best pleased I’m in.”

 

“I’d imagine not,” the pathologist drawled. “On the desk with you then, unless you’d rather one of the tables out there.” He jerked his head towards the morgue, and Morse shuddered. Just the thought of sitting on cold metal which had recently had blood and other bodily fluids draining off it made him feel nauseous.

 

Morse loosened his tie and sat himself on the desk. “It was just a beating.” He started to unbutton his shirt.

 

“A beating with what?” DeBryn asked sharply as he got his first look at Morse’s chest. “Did someone drop a house on you?”

 

“Brass knuckles.” Morse winced as the doctor reached out and prodded his stomach. “Apparently now I’ve been truly initiated to London society.” DeBryn muttered something dour, and poked at him again. Morse gripped at the edge of the desk, white knuckled. “I might throw up,” he said though gritted teeth.

 

DeBryn looked up at him in sudden alarm, and went for the waste paper basket. Morse cradled it in his lap, and tried to breathe slowly.

 

“Any other injuries I should know about?”

 

“Knocked me on the back of the head. I was out for a bit.”

 

“Hmm, have you felt dizzy since? Confused? Vision alright?” Morse shrugged. “Those were questions, Morse.”

 

“Dizzy,” Morse admitted reluctantly. “Sick. Bit blurry right after, but then they… So I wasn’t sure what was because of that.”

 

“You do know that you should be resting at home, Morse,” DeBryn said seriously. Kindly, though, and with an unspoken acceptance that Morse was going to ignore him. Somehow it didn’t rub Morse up the wrong way, the way that Inspector Thursday’s awkward concern had been over the last few days. And Morse could do without Thursday implying his thoughts weren’t straight every five minutes – he’d been shot in the leg, not the head. Morse felt itchy anger start to crawl over his skin, and forced himself to push the thoughts to one side.

 

Feeling less queasy, Morse set the basket down to the side, and DeBryn continued palpating his abdomen over the bruises. “Well, nothing serious or broken. I’m glad to have had a look at you, though. Keep an eye on your ribs for a couple of days and let me know how they’re doing.” Morse nodded, and started buttoning his shirt again.

 

“Morse,” Debryn said as he headed towards the door. Morse turned. “When I said not to get shot before, I didn’t mean you should go out and find some other method to get injured by.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Doctor. Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and that big brain of yours,” Thursday sighed. “You’ve managed to wind yourself up in knots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Tag - Thursday and Morse continue their conversation at the pub, and have a few things out.

“Luncheon meat,” guessed Morse automatically, and Thursday’s heart leapt foolishly. He opened the sandwich to check, as he always did. Luncheon meat it was.

 

“Right you are, as always.” Morse didn’t look up from his crossword, but his lips twitched slightly. It was the first hint of a smile Thursday had got out of the lad since he’d been back. Since he was shot. “Glad to see you more yourself,” he added slightly awkwardly.

 

It was the wrong thing to say. Morse tensed, his fingers gripping the pencil more tightly, and Thursday wondered if he ought to have let it be. Not in his nature, though.

 

“I never stopped being myself,” the lad muttered tersely, and filled out a clue with angry, bold strokes.

 

Thursday felt the same deep tug of irritation and concern that had been dogging him since Morse had come back. How was he supposed to believe Morse was alright when the lad startled at every noise, and took offense at every order? So far, Thursday had been putting the attitude down to stress, to injury, to grief. Maybe that had been a mistake. “You care to tell me what’s been wrong then, lad? You’ve been snappier than a terrier.”

 

Morse glared at him. Considering it came coupled with a half-broken nose and blackened eyes, the overall effect wasn’t particularly fearsome.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he bit out, and his chair scraped loudly across the floor as he pushed it out to stand. “I think I’ll be heading back to the station, sir.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Thursday said congenially, not missing a beat, and picked up his hat. Morse was momentarily stymied.

 

“But your lunch…”

 

“It’ll keep.”

 

Morse sat back down with a thump, looking lost. Thursday mirrored him, and kept his mouth shut. Maybe Morse would finally say something. After a moment, the lad opened the paper at the crossword again, and stared down at it fixedly, not even attempting to read it. His wiry frame was still strung with tension, and Thursday felt his own muscles ache in sympathy.

 

This tack wasn’t working. “Still your round,” Thursday said. “But I suppose I can spot you one.”

 

When he got back with the drinks, he’d marshalled his thoughts a bit. “Eight letters,” he said, and Morse looked up in surprise. “Sullen, irritable. Third letter T.” He watched Morse carefully. He was opening with something almost guaranteed to give offense.

 

“Petulant,” said Morse after a moment. He didn’t look back down at the crossword, and he didn’t try and leave. Thursday was counting that as a win.

 

“Nine letters. Overly cautious, watchful, opposing. Second to last letter V.”

 

“Defensive.”

 

Thursday thought for a moment. Honestly, he’d thought Morse would have blown up already. “Seven letters. Unlike, out of place. Third letter U.”

 

“Unusual.”

 

“Four letters,” Thursday said softly. “Wounded, distressed. First letter H.” Morse stayed silent, but his breathing grew slightly irregular. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong, lad?”

 

Morse’s long fingers balled themselves into fists. “Why would anything be wrong?” he asked, and there was so much half-buried anger there. Thursday stayed quiet, waiting him out. After a moments struggle, Morse hissed, “And how would you know if it was? After all, you just left me there!”

 

Ah, and there was the poison that was eating the lad from the inside out.  Fred ought to have known, after his comment about the budget and dead-wood.

 

“I’d have had you here if I could, lad,” he said steadily.

 

“Would you?” Morse gave an ugly laugh. “How hard did you fight for it? And did you even want me back?”

 

“When have I ever given you reason to doubt that?” Thursday said fiercely.

 

“Are you sure you’re ready to come back, Morse?” Morse mimicked Thursday’s voice. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you returned too soon. _You’re not right_.”

 

Thursday thought of all the times he’d expressed his concern to the lad in the last few days, and when they met before that – trying to show him kindness by saying he didn’t need to push himself, that it was alright if he needed a bit longer. All taken the wrong way, apparently.  “I was concerned-“ he started, but Morse interrupted.

 

“Concerned! Concerned that I couldn’t do my job.” And here his face twisted as he obviously remembered his rant in front of Bright and Jakes. “Concerned that I’m still having some kind of delayed reaction…” His voice broke slightly.

 

“You’re too bloody proud, Morse.” Which wasn’t what Thursday had planned to say at all. “Can’t you understand that I was worried about you? You were shot, and I was _right there_ and didn’t manage to stop it. You lost your father, and you looked like a ghost when I left you at that house. And you’re not back five minutes before you’re being beaten senseless, which was exactly what I was trying to prevent!”

 

“Prevent?” Morse looked surprised. Slowly, sounding stunned, “You were trying to protect me?” Then his voice hardened. “I don’t need protecting.”

 

“Well apparently you bloody do! _Damned_ if I know why I care, Endeavour, but I do, so stop being such an arse.” Thursday stopped, breathing hard. Morse ducked his head, face flushed, and Thursday had the sudden thought he might be fighting tears. “I never want you to doubt that I wanted you here. Where I could keep my eye on you. Bright was…” Thursday bit back the desire to say something uncomplimentary about his superior. “Bright had his reasons, I’m sure. But I wanted you here.”

 

Morse nodded, somewhat shakily. “I’m sorry, sir,” he rasped. “I just – I feel like everyone’s treating me like I’m useless, like I can’t do the job. And if I can’t do the job, if I can’t help people, then what good…” His words trailed off, but Thursday finished them easily enough in his head. What good am I?

 

“You and that big brain of yours,” Thursday sighed. “You’ve managed to wind yourself up in knots.” Which was exactly why Thursday had wanted him here, where he would have been able to do something about it. Unfortunately, budget cuts aside, Bright had been equally adamant that the lad needed to go somewhere quiet.

 

“I was never any good at knots,” Morse said wryly, and flashed him a tight smile. It _was_ a smile though, another one, and Thursday felt his heart ease a little more.

 

Win had been right when she reminded him of his words after that first drink with Morse. The light _had_ gone out of his eyes back then – had likely been snuffed out of it by the idiots at County, and Thursday was even more angry at that than he was at that pillock Mallory for beating the shit out of Morse in London. There was a spark of that light again now though, like it had come flooding back when he’d solved the case.

 

“Alright then, lad, alright.” He gave the lad a little nod. “Do your crossword, and leave me to eat my sandwich in peace.”


End file.
